Bird of Theseus
by Ratkinzluver33
Summary: Wrenches and bolts can't fix his problems as well as they can fix his guns. - (Sequel to: "A House Divided")


**Author's Note:** Um, can you tell I was hungry and sleep-deprived when (and as) I wrote this?

I'm actually sorry for the pretentious title. I was thinking about philosophy recently, and the Ship of Theseus just kind of popped into my head. And then I was like, "Oh my God. Jason." Sorry? I'm, like, 200% sure I come across as a pretentious hipster teenager with this, but I literally cannot think of another title.

Behold, the fabled (unfabled) sequel! I didn't think I had it in me, honestly. It's probably about 100 degrees Fahrenheit over here, and I'm sweating actual buckets, so I haven't had much patience or energy for writing. Yet this came tumbling out. I'm not sure what even happened. I hope this is a good thing! Half the time I was hoping it didn't come across as some kind of weird heat-haze-induced very, very extended drabble/character study that writes itself in circles and goes nowhere. It probably got a little purple prose-y all up in here, too. Jeeze.

I'm not good with closure, but hopefully some issues have been worked out and some reconciliation found, so. And I'm sorry for being so late! I was supposed to have this published soon after the first in the series, but life got in the way :(.

Sorry, I'm sure you all know me as "That One Chick Who Leaves Really Long Author's Notes" by now. On with the show, right? As always, enjoy!

* * *

Roy doesn't want to let them go afterwards, and Jay doesn't want him to let them go. Honestly, any time away from Bruce's watchful eyes is good time in his book. Dick doesn't say anything, but the loose line of his shoulders says it for him. This is as close to a vacation as he'll ever get.

So, he keeps making excuses, staying a little longer, and eventually they form some kind of team, Red Hood and the Not Quite Outlaws. It's good. It's great, even.

Of course, it's not always easy. They have their close calls. He can't just breeze through vigilante work. He's never wanted to.

Except, maybe, he kind of does right now.

* * *

"I thought that was the last of them!" Jay says, voice muffled by the gunfire, but loud enough to be caught over the comms.

"Yeah, well, that's what I thought!" Roy snaps back. A bullet flies past, the force of it ruffling Roy's hair, like a flickering flame. Jay sighs dramatically.

"This was _not_ in the plan, guys," Dick calls out. He's ducked behind a pillar, hopefully thick enough to swallow all the bullets aimed his way. Occasionally, when there's opportunity enough, he'll throw a birdarang, knock out a few of the angry mob that's gathered, but they just keep coming. "Not that we had much of a plan anyway."

Roy waves a finger, between shooting off arrows. "Listen, the plan was 'Do a favour for Ollie and make sure these guys are distracted long enough for him to deliver the League super amazing information'. Nobody said _what_ distraction, or for how long."

"This is why we need better strategy," Jay groans. "Fuck's sake, they can't have an unlimited supply of mindless lackeys."

"Can't they?" Dick asks. "It's sure looking like it."

There's a moment where Jay sits on the floor, the smell of gunpowder filling his nose, wondering what the hell he's done with his two lives, but it fades as the comms crackle to life once more.

"Sorry about that." Oliver fucking Queen's voice comes filtering through the earpiece, finally. "Listen, I really appreciate what you've done here, risking your asses like this."

"Anything to help," says Dick, and Jay catches just a slight undercurrent of sarcasm.

"The League better write us a fuckin' IOU after this," Jay adds. He's the counterbalance to Dick's frequent but accommodating wisecracking, as always. Someone has to be.

"Oh, they will," Oliver says. "I'll make sure of it."

Roy grins. "He's gonna pull the 'I'm a Scary Vigilante Billionaire, You Better Listen to Me' card Bruce taught him."

"That I am." Oliver's laugh is close enough to be heard without the help of the comms, and soon green arrows join Roy's red.

"So we get to call in a favour?" Jay asks.

"Yeah, if I manage to make convincing puppy eyes," Oliver replies. Between the four of them, the gunfire is slowly dying down, as more and more of the mob flee in terror. Jay's almost insulted they're more scared of a guy in ridiculous tight green leather than three badasses with attitude problems, but at this point he's too hungry and tired to care. "Don't worry, you'll get good credit for this."

"We better!" Roy says. "I've wasted half a quiver on you, playboy! These arrows don't come cheap, you know."

Oliver snorts. "Oh, I know."

* * *

Red Hood and the Not Quite Outlaws arrive back in Gotham in Oliver Queen's car with the League's good favour.

Back at Jay's apartment, they pop open a few cheap, well-caffeinated sodas and celebrate not dying.

"I would text Kori about this," Roy says. "If she had a phone."

"She'd love this." Jay raises his drink to toast her, wherever she is.

Dick's eyes go sad at the mention of her name. "I miss the team sometimes," he says, fiddling with the bottle's label. It rips easily, damp and butter-soft from the condensation, and Dick gently tries to piece it back together. Even with a piece of paper, nothing's more important to him than helping.

"Aren't we kind of a new team?" Roy shrugs. "Sure, we don't seem like we'd fit, but it works, right?"

"Yeah," Dick says, looking up, smile blinding. He looks beautiful like this, unabashedly happy. Jay's glad their ragtag group is enough for him. "It works."

* * *

"Bruce called," Dick tells him. "He says he has a job for us."

Jay's face shutters. "A job?"

"Just gathering intel." Dick raises his hands, placating. He's got a frustratingly patient look on his face. "Roy's hacking skills could come in handy."

He frowns. "You don't need to handle me with the kiddie gloves just because we're talking about the boss man. I'm a big boy, Dickie, I  
won't cry."

"Look, I don't think you're made out of glass, if that's what you're saying. I just know it's rough between you, and I know Bruce doesn't know how to, well, run things smoothly, so to speak." Dick shakes his head. "Jay, this is his form of a peace offering. He just wants to help."

"Oh, does he?" Jay makes a play at being surprised. "He could've started by ending the Clown for good."

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just- let's do the job, okay?"

Jay sighs, nudges Dick a little. "Look, you know it's never gonna be easy with me and Bruce, right? Maybe good, but not easy." He looks down, doesn't want to see the pity in Dick's eyes. "Never easy."

"Yeah, I know." Dick smiles a small, broken kind of smile. "It can't be the way it used to be, I get it. But we could still try to make it a little easier. Just a little."

"Things change, Dickie. I died. I came back. And now I have to live with it." Jay snorts. "You know things with me have never been easy. I was always the family's fiery redhead, never quite what Bruce wanted me to be. Always second best to the perfect son." His face twists bitterly. "You know, I spent so much time trying to be you, I forgot how to be me. And I didn't care. I didn't even care, 'cause, with Bruce around, I didn't _want_ to be me. To risk disappointing him."

"Jesus," Dick says. His face has been growing steadily paler and paler. "Bruce wasn't disappointed by you, Jay. I guess he was just so caught up in losing his first Robin, he didn't know how to do it differently the next time."

"How many d'you think he's gonna go through, huh? Before he stops?"

Dick grimaces. "I can't say nobody else has died. But they knew the risks, going into it. God, Tim did so much research. And Dami, well. He's Bruce's son, right? He knew from the beginning what it meant to be Robin."

"We just don't die, do we?" Jay laughs, humourless. "Christ, we're just the gift that keeps on fuckin' giving. Always coming back."

"Maybe they should have called us Phoenix instead, huh?"

"Except, one day- one day, one of us isn't gonna come back. You know that, right? Bruce knows that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He looks suddenly unsure, concerned. "God, I hope so."

* * *

Bruce's mission is harder than he expects. The intel, files which map out the movements of some of Black Mask's most valued equipment shipments, is guarded like treasure. But Jay and the team aren't the only ones looking to get a leg up on one of the city's biggest mob bosses. Oh, no, Gotham is a dog-eat-dog kinda place, and every rival, from Penguin to the smallest dealer, wants a piece of the cake. And they have the dough to hand out for it.

Which is how Red Hood and the Not Quite Outlaws find themselves face-to-face with Slade Wilson, in a shadowed sewer with an access hatch leading to Roman Sionis' personal server room, all thanks to playboy billionaire and caped crusader Bruce Wayne.

Slade's single visible eye is narrowed, considering. "Grayson," he says with a nod, and looks from Dick to Jay and Roy with dangerously sharp interest. "A pleasure, as always."

"Why does _he_ have to be here?" Roy gripes.

"Seems we have a common goal," Slade continues, as if Roy hasn't spoken at all.

"What?" Dick asks gracelessly.

"You want Sionis' files, I want Sionis' files." Jay gets the disturbing feeling that there's a pleasantly false smile forming behind that mask. "I'm sure we could work this to our mutual advantage."

"You're offering to work with us?" Dick says, and looks like he's about to snort and shake it off, but Jay puts a hand on his shoulder before he offends the man with the personal, portable sword collection.

"I respect you, Grayson, for all your unshakable tenacity. When I'm not getting paid to kill you, of course." Slade tilts his head, birdlike. "We can both come out winners here. Files can be copied, after all. No need to fight over them."

"You think we should just let you steal them?" Dick says, sounding almost amused.

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

Dick raises an eyebrow. "We haven't been bought out by the mob," he says, measured. "These files are going to good use in our hands. Going towards making this city a better place."

"My current employer intends to use the files as leverage. They have no interest in taking the equipment for themselves."

"I'm game," Jay says, jumping in before Dick can get all righteous and idealistic. "I'm not gonna miss out on an opportunity to fuck over Sionis, not when the fucker deserves every bit of what's coming for him."

Slade's eye singles in on him, burning holes into the helmet. "Oh, kid, I think I might just like you. Seems we think alike."

"I ain't a kid," Jay grits out.

Roy sighs. "Hell, I'm game if you're game. For the record, this is really, really close to being the dumbest thing I've ever done. It's definitely up there."

"Grayson," Slade says. "Are you in or not? I'm not gonna ask you twice."

"Fine, okay. This better not come back and bite us in the ass, Jaybird."

Jay shrugs. "It probably will."

* * *

It doesn't actually come back and bite them in the ass. Maybe it's all the good karma Jay's been building up after agreeing to spare a few lives. Or maybe it's just dumb luck. Jay's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Slade's super strength proves invaluable, core in getting them through the access hatch, and through the guards posted throughout the base. He's the distraction they needed, probably not the distraction they deserved, but enough to buy Roy time. Enough time to come back with more information than strictly necessary, the kind of stuff that Bruce will shake his head at but use anyway. The kind of stuff that's gonna keep Sionis up at night, sweating and checking the window for dark, bat-shaped shadows. It sets a pleased grin on his face. Like he's the bat who got the cream.

Nobody's left to block their way, so they leave through the front door, and in the most surreal moment of Jay's life, each shake Slade Wilson's hand before parting ways.

"Job well done, right?" Roy says. His eyes are trained on the emptied building, his gaze following as a piece of broken glass drips from the smashed windows. "Actually, somebody pinch me. I'm pretty sure I dreamt this."

"Yeah, honestly, I'm not really sure it's real, myself." Dick scratches the back of his neck, shakes his head, and smiles impishly. "That may actually be the sketchiest thing I've ever done."

Jay grins back. "Aww, little birdie, you've got a long way to go. It ain't even in our top ten, is it, Roy?"

"Not in the top ten sketchiest. In the top ten stupidest, though, fucking definitely." Roy's eyes are wide, his mouth stretched by some kind of hysterical relief. "Man, how did we get out of that one alive?"

Jay stares. It's now, in front of a run-down warehouse, Slade Wilson jumping rooftops behind them, with a thumb drive containing enough blackmail material to last a lifetime safely nestled in his pocket, that things start to really sink in. "I have no fucking idea."

* * *

The Batcave seems cold and miserable without anyone but Bruce to breathe life into it. Bruce in himself is like a walking black hole, and coupled with a damp, dark hollow of greyed-out rock, it's like a shrine to brooding and self-pity-wallowing and all the things Bats love most. Jay doesn't much like the bitter taste it leaves.

Dick had insisted they submit their report in person, for reasons Jay assumes are nefarious. The main reason likely being, just his fucking luck, Dick's attempts at patching together a relationship that can't be fixed. Of course, nothing is unfixable in Dick's eyes, so Jay had agreed anyway, because he'd figured it was faster to get it over and done with, like ripping off a band-aid. A brooding, self-pity-wallowing band-aid.

Fuck, if it's not going to hurt, though.

"Hey, Bruce," Dick calls. Bruce has one hand on the keyboard and the other on his coffee mug, which he sets down momentarily to give a quick, half-assed wave. His eyes don't even move from the screen. Dick just smiles. Apparently, this is a warm fucking greeting in Bruce-speak. "Reporting in!"

"Dick," Bruce acknowledges, curt. "Jason." He takes a sip of his coffee, black and sugarless. _Oh, that's just like him._ Jay's mouth twitches at the thought, as if somehow hoping Bruce might hear it. He won't, of course. And Dick would sigh, would give up on his little redemption quest, if he saw, if he knew Jason was irredeemable. So Jay puts a finger to his mouth, a brief and fleeting touch, to remind himself to keep it closed. "You have the intel?"

"That we do," Dick says, and chucks Bruce the thumb drive, which he catches between two fingers. His eyes still haven't left the screen, its blue light reflecting in them, doubling the sharp glint they always carry. Jay fights back a sneer.

"Good work." Bruce's eyes momentarily land on them both. He seems approving, if only slightly. "You made a reckless decision, but it paid off."

Jay gives Dick an incredulous look, but Dick just shakes his head fondly. Bruce doubtlessly doesn't miss this little exchange, but he seems pleased enough with the contents of the drive to refrain from comment. This doesn't have to apply to him, of course. Not that he can ever refrain from comment.

"You knew?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow. It's efficient, conveys his point as clearly as speaking, probably saves him the trouble of conversing with the problem child for longer than necessary. It's good. Very Bruce. But Jay doesn't hold back the sneer this time.

It probably says something that he can read the hidden _"How long have you known me, again?"_ in that single movement. Probably says something that he replies, too. "Of course you knew."

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?" Dick says, aiming a speculative look at Bruce. "It's a pretty sound strategy."

"Perhaps not when dealing with Slade Wilson," Bruce says.

"He's a wild card, but it worked." Dick shrugs.

"Yes, it did." Bruce hums. "But it's a gamble." There's a moment where Bruce's eyes flicker to Jay, narrowed, just to watch the harsh expression form on his face before Jay knows he's going to make it. "As things in this business often are," Bruce continues, effectively cutting off Jay's scathing retort before it's even left his mouth, before his lips have begun to move, form the words with his knife-sharp tongue.

God, sometimes everything Bruce does makes him want to explode, half-laughing, half-crying.

"So, Boss, no lectures today?" Dick smirks, the same mischievous one he wore in the beginning, the early days, before Jay. It's teasing, but his eyes are warm.

Bruce smiles a little. Dick's always the one to make him smile. "No, Dick. No lectures." He waves a hand. "Maybe later."

"Looking forward to it!" Dick calls, and he flips up, lands himself nearer to the cave's exit, motions for Jay to follow.

Christ, Jay still waves goodbye.

He knows Bruce catches it.

* * *

When he gets back to the apartment, he turns to the fridge to drown his sorrows. Not that the fridge is some kind of confessional, something that'll talk back. Not that he has time to confess. Or to have sorrows.

He lets himself waste away a while, staring mindlessly at the TV, at housewives screaming themselves hoarse. Roy finds him like that, clutching a day-old burger in one hand, TV remote in the other. He freefalls onto the couch, rocking it on its failing foundations. Jay'll make him foot the bill if he finally gets round to breaking the damn thing.

"Bruce?" Roy asks.

"Yeah," Jay says. "He didn't do anything. I just don't like going there, man." He lets his face slump into his palm, fingers curling by his eyes, pressing bruises into his cheekbones. "Fuck. He still has the suit up, you know? 'A good soldier'. Daddy's blunt little instrument finally broke." He grins. "Replace an axe's parts enough times, and it's no longer the same axe."

What part of him is still Jason Todd, Second Robin, and what part is the Lazarus Pit?

Roy looks at him. "Yeah, I've been there." He looks pensive for a moment, stares with unseeing eyes at the screen, the housewives who aren't quite done taking each other apart. "Dick says he's trying to kind of smooth things over a bit. With you 'n' Bruce, I mean."

Jay nods. He figures his disbelieving look will get the point across.

"Worth a try." Roy shrugs. "Okay, philosopher." He sighs, shakes his head enough to loosen the trucker cap and tip it slightly forward. It makes him look like a duck. "Dick's not wrong."

Jay's frown deepens. That's the worst part. "I know he ain't."

* * *

Jay knows Dick wants to bring it up, itching to broach the subject with all that fucking helper's instinct, and it makes him feel all the worse for hiding away in Roy's makeshift workshop. The wrenches and bolts can't fix his problems as well as they can fix his guns.

"Jaybird," Roy says, waving an oil-stained finger dangerously close to his clean face. "Listen, not that I don't appreciate you being my test subject and all, but hiding isn't gonna solve anything." Roy gives him a sad smile. "Trust me, bro, I know."

"I'm not hiding." He gets a cap in the face for that. "I'm not!"

"Dude, I will boot you on your ass," Roy says. "I need you to go get snacks for me, anyway." He grins. "A good workman needs his food, or he'll start blaming his tools when he gets tired."

"Okay, asshole, but this is a one-time-only special. I'm not your fucking maid."

Roy hums thoughtfully. "You could pull off the dress, easy. Got the legs for it."

Jay flips him off.

Dick's in the kitchen when he arrives, standing in the fridge doorway with his cellphone tucked into his shoulder, looking like someone's fed him something sour. Jay raises an eyebrow at him, elbows him out the way to make a grab at the snacks, but Dick's kicked puppy expression won't fade.

"Yeah, thanks, Alfie. I'll let him know." He nods to himself, forgetting Alfred can't see. "Okay, see you tomorrow."

"What was that about?" Jay asks. He holds up the cookies he's snagged from the back shelf. "Alfie wanna restock us on our junk food? I'm not about to say no."

"He and Bruce want us to come over for dinner at the manor."

Milk splatters down the side of Roy's glass as Jay's steady hand falters. "The fuck? Doesn't Bats get sick of embarrassing family reunions?"

"He's really making an effort, Jay."

Jay sneers. He feels like a cornered dog, snapping at something far bigger than itself, something years of chasing cars can't prepare it to outrun. "What does he want, a sticker?"

Dick glares at him. "He doesn't even invite _me_ around for dinner. This is big, Jay. Really big."

So he has no choice. He grins, makes the same dumb expression he's seen plastered on the many women who've turned up on Bruce's arm. "Gee, I sure do hope I don't have to dress formal. After this long, my old suits must be _so_ outdated. Probably wouldn't fit either." He frowns. "Tragic, simply tragic."

Dick sighs, long-suffering. "It's just gonna be us, Jay. It's not like Bruce would invite anyone else to this. He's-"

"Too ashamed? Not sure I'm fit for the public eye?" Dick looks at him in disbelief. "It's fine. Always proud to be the family disappointment."

"-not that cruel." Dick squeezes his shoulder. "I was gonna say he's not that cruel."

"Whatever." He shrugs Dick's hand off. "There's no universe where this ends well, Dickiebird." Yet here he is, still hopping on board this train wreck. He can't even hope the crash - the burn - will be fun.

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

* * *

It's hours before they're set to leave, and Jay still can't stop pacing. It's not as if the floor has complaints, broken and worn-down as it is. It's seen worse. God knows what the previous residents did to it. Still, he feels panicked, sick, restless. It's not like this is the worst idea he's had. Roy and him, they've done stupid shit. And before that, well. Good times.

He doesn't know why Bruce is making such an effort. The man's stubborn, wouldn't have gotten this far - or anywhere at all - if he wasn't. But this is fucking useless, even for him.

Yeah, he's made amends with other Bats. Fuck, if he hasn't hurt them all at least three times over by now, but Jay's not just some kicked puppy, hiding with his tail between his legs because Daddy hurt his feelings. Bruce can't solve this by feeding him until he forgets, like he's twelve and wearing pixie boots again.

Briefly, he wonders if Alfred put him up to this. Or Jay's sweet little Replacement, always so eager to help. So eager he followed Bruce home like a stray dog, he hears. Overkill, probably. All it took to send him off crime-fighting was some stolen tires.

He wishes he had seen it, the no doubt comical look on Bruce's face, watching this kid - voice still cracking - standing there with the one secret drunk, loose-tongued playboy Brucie Wayne hasn't spilled once. Too bad he was busy being dead, and then undead. God, that would've been classic.

He sits down on the rickety old mattress, stares at his reflection in the helmet lying beside him. He looks like shit. He feels like shit, too. Half incredulous, half mad. He wants to see Alfred again, maybe even talk to Tim a little, ruffle Dami's hair again and see the furious look on his face. He just doesn't want to face Bruce, who only looks at him and sees his mistakes.

Jay doesn't blame him for what Joker did. Unless Wayne Industries produced that crowbar, built that warehouse, it's not on him. But every death at Joker's hands after that? Can Bruce honestly say he couldn't have done something to stop them? There are some people who don't run on logic, and Joker's one of them. Alfred said it once, that men like him just want to watch the world burn.

Well, Jay's not just gonna stand around like a good soldier and let Joker finally light the match that starts the fire. Not like Bruce will.

* * *

Roy drives them there in a half-broken hunk of junk they hope nobody will notice pulling up into the driveway of a mansion ten thousand times its worth.

"Are you sure I don't have to dress fancy for this, Jaybird?" Roy asks. He's holding his cap in his hands, staring at it with a longing that suggests parting from it is going to cause him actual physical pain.

"Whatever, keep the cap. If Bruce gives you shit about it, ignore him. Or tell him to fuck right off." Jay shrugs. "You look weird without it anyway."

"That I do!" Roy says, and coos at it. Jay _and_ Dick roll their eyes. "It's my baby."

Dick leads them up the front steps, raises his arms wide in front of the tall, engraved door. "Home, sweet home!" He pats the side of the house like a pet. "Always good to be back."

"So, do we ring the doorbell, or what?" Roy looks up, and up, and up. Jay'd forgotten how tall the place was. Regal and elegant and standoffish and just a little imposing, just like its owner.

Dick waves a hand. "Nah, there's no way they don't already know we're here."

"I'm gonna pretend that's not the creepiest shit ever," Roy says.

"You get used to it," Jay says and pats him on the back.

The door opens slowly and with an eerie creak. It's as if the house knows its occupants and their obsession with scare tactics. Roy seems unnerved, tries to peak inside where there's light and food and slightly less terror.

There's nothing but a shadowed hallway until Alfred steps out into the fading evening light, looking genuinely glad to see them. All of them, not just Dick. And Roy breathes an audible sigh of relief, stuffs his hands into his pockets, where they're probably clammy with sweat.

"Relax," Dick tells them. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Do you really want the answer to that?" Jay sighs.

"Master Richard," Alfred says. "You've had the guests delivered safe and sound, I see."

Dick grins. "A veritable miracle."

Roy reaches out to shake Alfred's hand, and Jay raises a sceptical eyebrow.

"Dude, I've gotta make a good first impression!" Roy glares at him. Jay smiles back.

Alfred leads them inside, Roy and Jay tiptoeing like idiots, trying not to dirty the floor that's been paved by rugs with designs that look like they've been woven by an honest to God Renaissance painter. It makes Jay feel kind of woefully inadequate. He's had the least practice here. Dick's led a life like this for years, and Roy had the whole stint with Oliver the Actual Billionaire, so he supposes they're at least a little prepared.

Jay was fifteen, stupid, and reckless the last time he had an extended stay here. He was young enough that manners seemed like useless bullshit posturing, that the people who cared about them were obsessed with an era long past. Food was food, and Jay had only ever been grateful to eat it, never had time or energy to worry about _how._ And why start?

He still isn't the most well-mannered person around, but he knows enough that if bullshit posturing is what it takes to smooth this along, he'll go with it gladly, even if it means straining a muscle to keep his pinkie out the whole damn time.

Doesn't mean he has to like it though, spending the whole time acting stilted and subdued in an attempt not to sully the mansion's class by opening his mouth.

They arrive at the dining room and find it decked with course after course. Christ, Alfred's gone all out when they're only a party of three. It's not like they're hard to please. Roy will eat absolutely anything, and Dick's content to live his life on cereal and cold coffee. Jay couldn't care less if he's fed foie gras, caviar, and filet mignon or some good, cheap, greasy pizza. Not that they won't all three eat the entire set, but it's still more than necessary.

Bruce must be really anxious to get back in Jay's good graces. Or at least get him to stop shooting people that deserve to die.

"Man," Roy says, hearts and stars in his eyes. "I've never seen this much food in my life."

"He expect the team to be bigger?" Jay asks. "This is enough to feed the entire JLA, JLU, JL Dark, whatever the hell else."

"Well, he did say he was inviting us round for dinner," Dick says. "Guess he really took that to heart."

"Shutting us up with food, huh? It's a good tactic."

Alfred looks distinctly unimpressed. "I assure you, Master Bruce has no intention of 'shutting you up with food', young sir."

"Then what's this supposed to be? A nice evening chat?"

"Not quite how I'd put it, but yes," says Bruce, appearing from nowhere like usual. "It's good to see you, Jason."

"Yeah, it's a real pleasure, old man."

"Well, let's get this party started," Dick cuts in. "I don't know about you, but I'm starved. I think I could eat the whole table's worth."

"Not if I get to it first," Roy says, and like that, the atmosphere's lightened.

Not that Jay's sure it'll stay that way.

* * *

"So, Bruce, you had any good cases recently?" Roy asks, spearing more shrimp with his fork. There's no food at the corners of his mouth, probably because he's been wiping at it nervously with the provided embroidered serviette every few seconds, but there is a tiny wisp of coriander in his teeth. Jay resists making a pun about their fiery Tamaranean friend. "Kick any ass?"

Bruce chuckles a little at this. Honestly, thank fuck he invited Roy along, because nobody makes people with sticks up their asses laugh quite like he can.

"Only the usual," Bruce says. "Plenty of business with the League."

"Ollie's not causing any trouble? I have it on good authority he can be a giant douchecanoe."

Jay chokes a little on his fruit juice.

Roy holds up a hand. "Dinah's words, not mine!"

"Fortunately, he's managed to restrain himself there," Bruce answers, good-natured. "I wouldn't worry about Oliver. He's proven to be a valued team member and an asset in the field."

Roy sighs in exaggerated relief. "Dinah'll be happy about that. She's worried he's been running wild while she's off on her singing gig."

"Speaking of Tight Leather Robin Hood, did he really put in a good word for us?" Jay asks. "I haven't exactly been up to the Watchtower to check."

"Oliver can be very convincing when he wants to be," Bruce says slyly. "Very 'Used Car Salesman', less 'Upstanding League Member'. You should be proud."

"Fuck yeah," Roy and Jay chorus, and drag Dick into a team high-five.

"We're going up in the world," Roy says proudly.

"Thanks to Oliver's hard work, the League recognises you as an official team."

Dick's eyes widen in surprise, and he gives a sort of jaded snort. "They're gonna actually tolerate our, y'know, borderline legality?"

"There's a surprise," Jay chimes in. "How did Ollie manage that one?"

"I hope he hasn't sold his soul to the guys back at Justice League Dark." Roy frowns and chews at his lip. "Seriously, he didn't go out of his way, did he?"

"The League was already receptive," Bruce dismisses. "And they value Oliver's opinion regardless."

"What about you?" Dick asks. "Did Ollie get us out of the doghouse? Or, well, bathouse?"

"I was convinced long before Oliver laid on the charm at the League, Dick." Bruce stares them down, appraising. "You've led teams before and had experience cooperating with others on the field long before that. I wasn't worried."

"Really?" Jay bites out. "Not even a little?"

"I wasn't any more worried than usual," Bruce corrects. "It'd actually be more worrying if I wasn't worried at all." He smiles, a small hint of teasing playboy shining through. "As counterintuitive as that seems."

"When are things _not_ counterintuitive with you?" Dick laughs. "This is a good start, guys. Better than I thought it was gonna be, actually, and I'm the optimist here."

"You sure about that?" Jay asks. There's a lot at stake here, smoothing it over with the Bats, the League, the heroes with staunch morals.

Roy shrugs. "Baby steps, man."

And Jay thinks, okay, maybe it's a start. Maybe they can get somewhere with this, Red Hood and the Not Quite Outlaws.

* * *

Bruce invites them to stay overnight, and Dick somehow wrangles them all into accepting.

The manor's dark, riddled with speckles of moonlight that trickle in from the windows, cold on Jason's bare feet as the three trek through the hallways towards the bedrooms. He's been gone years, but he has fond memories of sneaking around with Dick late at night, hiding in the guest rooms with movies whose endings he remembers through fatigue-blurred eyes, Dick fast asleep and with an arm wrapped firmly around him. It's enough to know the layout off by heart.

He finds the door to his room, still decorated with the sign he'd quickly doodled on school binder notepaper, proudly proclaiming "Jason's Room" in once-bright green pen. It's faded almost entirely now, sun-bleached and cracking, the green less like apple and more like puke, or rotten avocado, but it still reminds him of home. As much as he's ever had one.

He takes a look inside, finds it clean, pillow fluffed, not one thing out of place, and can't bring himself to change it, smash through this somehow unbroken window to his past. He runs his fingers over the spines of the books lined up on shelf after shelf. There's one, sticking out like a sore thumb with its frayed cover and faded print, which Jay convinces himself to displace. He doesn't need to open it to know its his favourite. The copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ Bruce got him one year, promising that it was worth it, not to judge it by its cover before at least giving it a try.

The nostalgia hits him like a freight train, even though the room's filled with as many bad memories as good.

He stays a good half hour, reads the first three chapters of Austen's classic aloud to Dick and Roy, and leaves with it tucked under his arm, hoping Damian hasn't been woken up by their laughter, or their loud impressions of the characters. The little twerp will put up a huge fight if they've disturbed him, even for only a second.

Alfred sets them up in an unused room with bunk beds, which Roy falls in love with at first sight.

"Yo, I call dibs on the top bunk," he says, climbing the ladder two rungs at a time. "Archers need high ground, Jaybird. It's science."

"Looks like it's just you and me, Dickie," Jay says and squishes himself as close to the wall as possible. Dick is like an octopus when he sleeps, and the bed was clearly only ever meant for one. It's going to be a tight squeeze, but Jay can't bring himself to be annoyed. The day's gone off without a hitch somehow. It's more than Jay thought they could pull off.

And Dick's warm where the night's cold, anyway. It's a fair trade.

As expected, the bed's turned into a cutlery drawer almost immediately, Dick taking his place as the big spoon, even though Jay's taller and bulky where Dick's lean, maybe a little hard to wrap arms around. He forgets his own strength, sometimes, looks in the mirror and expects ridiculous doughnut-shaped bangs, red hair that's still untouched by dye or bright Lazarus-white, dirt smudges covering the freckles nobody knows he has. The thief small enough to slip through windows, crawl through vents, blend into the background like a shadow.

That was a whole other lifetime ago, though.

"Do you miss it?" Dick asks, voice muffled by Jay's hair.

"Do you?"

"Parts of it," Dick admits. "I like it now, though. Team's bigger. Family's bigger. It's not just me, you, Bruce, and Babs anymore. 'S nice."

"You're kind of an extrovert, you know that? You're like some sorta people magnet."

"Oh, Jay, does that mean you're attracted to me?"

Jay groans. "Shut up and go to sleep. And don't snore into my ear, asshole."

"Aww, I'm attracted to you, too, Jaybird."

A hand comes to ruffle his hair, which he tries and fails to slap away. It stays for a moment, then makes its way back down to rest by Jay's stomach as an arm wraps around his waist. He's too tired to call Dick out on his cephalopodic clinging.

"You guys are so cute," Roy says, hanging upside down, hair falling into his eyes. "I wanna join."

"Maybe if there was more room," Jay says, and Dick snorts.

"You called shotgun, Roy," he says. "Too little, too late!"

"Better luck next time," Jay offers. Roy gives him a pout and swings back up into his bird's nest, but he lets one tattoo-plastered arm hang down. Just to be closer.

Sometimes it's nice to remind yourself you're still alive, that you've made it.

* * *

"Don't think I didn't hear you last night."

Jay comes to with Damian's towering figure shadowing the light from his eyes.

"Sorry, Mini D," Dick says, raising his face from the pillow to look groggily around. "What time is it?"

"Too early, if you ask me." Roy clambers down, makes himself at home on the bottom bunk, and covers his face with his cap like a sun-blinded, hungover college student. "Shadier down here," he offers, even though three muscle-bound vigilantes do not a twin size make.

"It's far too late for this," Damian says. "None of you were vampires, last time I checked. Stop hiding from the sunlight and get up. We have training to do."

"Bats are nocturnal!" Dick protests. Damian nudges him with the tip of his big toe, arms crossed and looking disturbingly stern for a ten-year-old. "Five more minutes, Mom!"

"Payment for last night," Damian says loftily. "It's only fair."

Dick groans at him.

" _-Tt.-_ I don't sleep like the dead, you know."

"It too soon to make a Dead Robin joke?" Jay asks, still sleep-slurring. "'S my right, man."

"Tasteless, tactless idiot," Damian says, but he sounds unwillingly fond. "Just don't bring it up around Father."

* * *

They head downstairs, where they find Tim having breakfast. He takes one look at the four of them and sets down his fork. Jay watches the maple syrup on his plate slowly drip down to settle over it, abandoning its place on top of what looks like french toast.

"Aren't you supposed to be with the Titans?" Jay asks.

"Thanks for the welcome," Tim says dryly.

"I was just saying," Jay protests. "Don't you have... responsibilities and shit?"

"Responsibilities and shit?" Tim repeats. "I'm staying for a day, Jay. I heard you were coming."

"Aw, squirt, you came all this way just for me? I'm flattered."

Tim sighs. "I think I'm starting to regret this decision."

"Does that mean you'll be leaving, Drake?" Damian says, all politeness and innocence, but his eyes gleam.

"No." Tim gives him an equally polite smile. Jay watches as they stare each other down for a few seconds. "It definitely does not mean that at all, Wayne."

"Did Bruce invite you?" Jay cuts in, before fists start flying.

Tim hums through a mouthful of his breakfast. He swallows, looking content, before speaking again. "I heard about it and decided to come myself. You never stop by the manor, you know."

"Yeah," Jay says. "I know."

* * *

"You didn't believe me when I said we all missed you, did you?"

Jay dodges Dick's high kick and shoots him a sour glare.

"We're gonna have this conversation now? Really?" He's sweating and panting and trying not to get hit in the face. Now is not the time for Dick's oozing sap.

"Gotta get you while you're distracted."

Jay rolls his eyes and throws another punch, which is swiftly blocked. They dance around each other for a few moments, and Jay sweeps out a leg to unsteady Dick's footing. Dick stumbles but doesn't go down. Jay groans.

"I'm trying to fight here," he complains.

"We can multitask, then." Dick's smiling as his fists go flying. Jay has to duck the next one like he's playing a particularly hardcore game of Limbo. "You really didn't believe me?"

Jay grunts, noncommittal, and flips forwards. Dick has to spin around to face him, then, but he's already aiming another punch, which scuffs at the side of Dick's ear. "When have I ever lied to you, Jay?"

"That doesn't mean shit. You see this place with rose-tinted glasses, even after all these years." Jay dodges another hit. "I don't."

"You think I'm too idealistic to see things how they really are? I know this family, Jay. Don't doubt that for second, okay?" Dick laughs sadly. "Believe me, I know. I've been here the longest, remember? It gets tough at times, but none of us ever stop caring."

Jay stops, only for a second, but long enough for Dick to charge him. It's a hard blow, but Dick doesn't let him fall. His fingers curl in a firm grip around Jay's bicep, leaving him teetering backwards in the air for an awkward moment. As soon as his feet are planted back on the training mat's soft surface, he sighs and wipes the sweat from his forehead. "Tell that to Bruce."

"He doesn't need telling," Dick says, voice rough as they catch their breath. He sounds almost a little too strangled for Jay to chalk it up to simple exhaustion, though. Like Jay's broken relationships are somehow his problem. "Bruce _does_ care about you. Anyone could see that, Jay. Not just trained detectives."

"Yeah, I'm not really seeing that." Jay unwraps the bandages strung around his hands - meagre protection, but enough for a simple sparring session. He throws them to the floor with a loud smack, unclenches his fists to let his aching knuckles rest. He's far from tired physically, but mentally he feels like a rubber band, stretched to its limits, far enough to snap back or to simply break. "He could have done more. Stopped this from happening again."

"You know what would happen if he went that far, Jay."

"Would it?" Jay asks. "Bruce's method isn't any better than mine. Fuck, ask any inmate and they'd tell you death is better than a life sentence in Arkham or Blackgate. You really think _I'm_ the cruel one? I'm goddamn merciful compared to him."

"I would've thought you'd _want_ Joker to suffer in Arkham for the rest of his life."

"I can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind. But to scum in this city, Arkham is a revolving door. It has to be. Joker's never stayed there more than a year, and he always takes others with him." Jay shakes his head, smiling bitterly. "It's a temporary solution to a permanent problem, Dickiebird. Bruce won't end it. He's too busy pussyfooting around."

"So you think it's your job?" Dick asks. Jay watches a bead of sweat drip down his neck. The room is quiet now the fight is over, so Jay takes a moment just to listen to Dick's breathing. For decades, it's remained constant. Not like Jay's.

"Who else, huh? Who else is gonna do it?" Jay snorts. "I'm the only one fucked up enough to even try. You gotta leave sanity behind if you wanna fight the Clown and win."

"Put the martyr complex aside for a moment and just listen, Jason." Dick's hands land with a smack on his shoulders. He looks mad with desperation. "There are other ways to take him down. Hell, _I'll_ help you."

"He's a better fuckin' escape artist than Houdini. Anywhere we put him, he'll get out. Doesn't matter if it's Arkham or a cell in the Batcave."

Dick's hands go tighter. Jay blinks at him. "Do you honestly think killing Joker is going to fix anything? It won't bring your old life back. And soon enough, someone else will take his place. Maybe someone worse, maybe not. But trust me, they'll be there."

"Then I'll kill them too," Jay says.

"Is that the path you wanna go down, Jay? You can't turn back from that."

"And I haven't gone down it already? With my killcount, I was down it the day Talia threw me into the Pit," he growls. "I might as well do something good with it. Kill Joker before he kills someone else."

"He doesn't have to die to stop killing."

"Bullshit. He won't ever stop. You know he won't."

Jay watches the lies on Dick's tongue die with the anger in his eyes. "Maybe he won't. But he'll have won if you kill him. He'll have _won,_ Jay."

"How the fuck will he win if he's dead?"

"You'll be no better than him. And then we'll be no better than him for standing by and letting you." Dick gives him a broken grin. "That's what he wants, right? To drag us down with him? We'll just be proving him right. That secretly, everyone else is just as bad as he is, that the only difference is that we still pretend." Dick shakes his head. "But he's wrong to believe that, Jay. You're better than he is. We all are. Don't let him have the last laugh."

"So I just let him, what, kill people to- to uphold my fuckin' _moral standing?_ " Jay snaps. "How's that better?"

"Me, you, Roy, even Bruce, we can take him down. Lock him up for good."

"For good?" Jay parrots. "Did you even hear what I just said? He doesn't stay locked up for good."

"We can get people to watch him. People on the inside."

"You wanna turn Arkham against the Joker?" Jay almost chokes on the laughter he holds back. "You think that's possible?"

"Half of Arkham is terrified of him. The other half wants him dead. It won't be that hard, Jay. With enough incentive, we can have the whole place working to keep him inside."

Jay stares. "You're one manipulative bastard, you know that, Dick?"

Dick shrugs, but has the decency to look sheepish. "It's what Bruce taught me."

"Colour me impressed."

* * *

"You should stay," Damian says. Jay looks up from the copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ to stare at him in confusion. "At least come here more often, Todd."

There's something oddly vulnerable in the way he says it that hits him like a sucker punch to the gut. Damian Wayne doesn't _do_ vulnerable. So he nods, like a well-trained pet, wordless, and Damian relaxes with a satisfied smile.

"Good." And then he leaves.

"That was fucking weird," Jay tells the book, like Jane Austen is somehow gonna give _him_ relationship advice.

Roy snuffles and mumbles a little from the top bunk. Eventually, he peeks down. "Did I hear that right, dude? Did Mini-Wayne just ask us to stay?"

"I dunno. I think he's gone soft."

"Yeah, right." Roy waves him off. "Not actually possible."

"A lot of impossible shit has happened recently." Jay glances around the room, once again wondering if any of this is even real, if his whole second life's just been some kind of fucked up, wishful fever dream. Every morning he half expects to wake up in a coffin again, chalk the past years up to death-driven insanity, find he's never moved at all. Hell, he could still be wandering around somewhere, mindless without the Pit's influence. Anything can happen, right?

"You're telling me," Roy says, and goes back to sleep.

* * *

Dick rests a hand on his shoulder, leaning over where Jay's slumped at the kitchen table. "Are you gonna stay?"

"I'll be in and out. Gotta take care of my apartment, Dickie. Can't have anyone thinking I've died again."

"Bruce agreed, by the way," Dick says, careful. It takes a moment for Jay to piece together any meaning from that non-sequitur.

"To your Arkham plan?" Jay snorts.

"I'm serious, Jay! Dead serious." Dick raises his eyebrows, fondly exasperated. "I know you don't think I'm actually capable of impressing him, but he was. Completely impressed, I swear."

"How much convincing did that take?"

"Honestly? Not much. I think he's just glad you've agreed to anything at all. Especially something that doesn't involve killing."

"Especially?" Jay sighs. "I'm not a complete psycho, Dickie."

"No, but you're stubborn as all hell." Dick laughs. "I think Bruce believes I'm a good influence on you."

"I've known you most of my life," Jay says dryly. "Why now?"

Dick flushes a little. "Well, uh, I. I mean, he knows, so. I imagine he assumes-"

"What, you've fucked it out of me?"

Dick clears his throat awkwardly. "I wasn't gonna put it quite like that."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's true," Jay snarls. "I can't believe I'm going along with this."

"Hey, no," Dick says softly. "Come on."

Jay waves him off. "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry. I just don't like the thought of Bruce... _scrutinising_ me. Us."

"He scrutinises everything." Dick sighs. His hands come up to fiddle with his ridiculous surfer necklace, worrying at the beads. Jay wonders if he went to sleep with it, what Bruce would think of the choking hazard, if he'd tell him off. Dick has always been the good son, he'll put up with most of what Bruce can throw at him. Damian and Tim, they have more sore spots, but it takes a lot for them to break. Jay, not so much. He's not so easy. "It probably doesn't help, but I don't think Bruce has any problem with it. Even if it did take a lot of overanalysis for him to come to that conclusion."

"Don't blame me if I find that hard to believe," Jay spits. He's not angry at Dick for loving Bruce. Fuck, if he could have that, ignorance would be bliss. If only he weren't Bruce's worst mistake, that's what he's mad at.

"You don't have to believe it for it to be true," Dick says, simple. "Y'know, if you don't believe Bruce, believe me. I know he's fine with it. If I'm right about the meaning behind that conversation on Wayne Tower, he _told you_ he was fine with it."

Jay looks away. "Yeah, he did. But it's not like he hasn't lied before, right?" He sneers. "Not that I need the Bat's approval. It ain't worth much." His voice goes quieter as he tries to keep his anger - rising up from old wounds like blood from a picked scab, but real fuckin' unhelpful - from colouring it. "I wouldn't let his opinion come between us, anyway. It's _our_ choice. He doesn't have shit to do with it."

"No, he doesn't," Dick says. Jay's almost surprised. Almost. "If he didn't approve, I wouldn't let that stop me, Jay."

"I didn't think you would, okay? You're not his bitch, I know that." Jay rests his hand over Dick's, where it's still placed firmly on his shoulder. "I don't think of you like that."

"Doesn't it, well, bug you? That I'm kinda unaffected by him?"

"No? What? Listen, it's good. Bruce needs someone like that. Doesn't deserve it, but whatever. You're his son as much as Damian is. I get that."

"Thanks, Jay." Dick smiles again, genuine. "I know it's not easy for you to stay here, but it hasn't been too bad, right?"

"Food's great," Jay supplies, making Dick chuckle. "Damian's a good kid. Kind of a brat, but so was I. Probably still am. I do actually like him, though. Tim, too. It's nice talking to them, you know? Don't get to see them that often."

"Yeah. I'm glad Tim came over. It's not all that often we get a full family reunion. A peaceful one, too. Now, if only Babs were here."

"I haven't seen her for a while." Jay grins. "She still kick your ass at chess?"

"She still kick yours?"

"Dunno. Maybe. Wanna practice? We can impress her next time she's here."

"Okay, you're on. Hope you're not still a sore loser, Jaybird, 'cause you're in for it now."

"Wanna bet?"

* * *

"Oh, you _chucklehead,_ " Jay spits out, face pressed to the floor by Damian's foot.

They're sparring again, or more like fighting, because Bruce had said they would need practice if they were going to take down the Joker. Well, fuck him. Jay didn't sign up for this. It's him and Dick versus Tim and Damian. But Damian, damn him. Little shit's good.

Too good.

"I expected better, Todd. You letting yourself get beat by a ten-year-old? That's low, even for you. At this point, I'd say Drake's better than this, as much as that pains me to admit."

"I was going easy on you, asshole. I'm an adult, and you're an elementary school student. How's that fucking fair?"

"Life is _never_ fair," Damian says. "And you're hardly an adult."

"Oh, fuck off," Jay says, more into the mat than anything. He thinks he can taste sweat and plastic on it. Disgusting.

"Dick really wasn't lying when he said you were a sore loser," Tim says. It comes out more like one of Bruce's observations, though. Inherited overanalysis.

"What can I say? It's one of my many faults," Jay chokes out. "Listen, Dami, are you gonna let me up, or do you wanna continue suffocating me? I kind of had plans."

Damian slowly eases his foot off Jay's abused cheek. "We need to be better than this." He gives Jay an almost frantic look. "This is an _undertaking,_ Todd. Take it seriously or get yourself killed."

"Awww, Damian, I didn't know you cared."

"You're of no use to me dead," Damian says. That's as close to affection as he'll get. How sweet.

Within seconds, Jay's back to blocking Damian's punches.

* * *

Training only gets more intense, and the fighting turns downright dirty as Bruce continues to get closer and closer to pinning down the Joker. Bruce's leads are solid, but nobody's more unpredictable than the Clown. Sometimes, it takes its toll.

"Is that your seventh cup of coffee?" Tim asks. Bruce's hands might be shaking.

"It's my eighth," Bruce replies.

"Have some herbal tea or some shit," Jay says, eyeing him warily. "Don't kill yourself."

Bruce laughs. There are bags under his eyes, despite the alertness in them. "I'm hardly going to die of a caffeine overdose, Jason."

"You never know."

Jay turns his attention to Tim, who's survival instincts seem to have been entirely forgotten in the 'Cave. He's been scribbling away in an ink-stained notebook for the past few hours. Honestly, he looks like shit.

"You okay, Tim?"

Tim blinks up at him. "What? Yeah, I'm fine." He laughs a little at Jay's sceptical look. "Convincing Arkham to turn against the Joker isn't exactly easy."

Jay gives a guilty wince. Maybe he shouldn't have agreed. He knows it's not Tim's burden to bear, or Damian's, or even Dick's, for that matter. Dick seems to think Jay's problems are now his own, but Tim and Dami don't owe him shit. He shouldn't be asking this of them, not when he's perfectly capable of taking out the Joker himself.

"Not that I don't like the challenge," Tim cuts in. "I chose to do this, remember?"

"Yeah, sure," Jay says, aiming for accepting but coming out about as emotive as Red Tornado. Tim's cheeks dimple as he frowns in concern.

"Todd's martyr complex is kicking in again," Damian says conversationally. "We've done this of our own free will, you know. As if _you_ could force me to do anything in the first place. Don't make me laugh."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Jay groans.

"Because you sacrificed yourself. Why else?" Damian shrugs. This is a simple fact for him, a cautionary tale, a legend passed down from Robin to Robin. Don't be the one that died. Not that that did him any good. It isn't as if Damian managed to escape the same fate.

"I'm not the only little birdie back from the dead here," Jay says.

Damian's expression flickers to haunted for a brief moment, and then fades, like it's a flame to be pinched out. He always carries himself with a resigned sort of awareness that makes him look far older than ten, but now it makes him seem like some kind of war veteran. Really, Jay hasn't seen him act his age for even a fleeting second, so this shouldn't be a surprise, but even he allowed himself a moment to grieve when he scratched and crawled his way out of his own grave. Damian acts like his own emotions are a parasite intent on ripening him for the kill.

"No, you're not," he allows, and turns back to his work.

* * *

It's two nights before they're set to take down Joker. Bruce's tracked his movements fully by now, has probably already calculated the percentages down to the decimal. Whether they'll succeed, whether they're right. It's dangerous, it's fucking touch and go. There's a good chance they'll get seriously hurt.

Jay feels like he's damning them all to his own fate. It's not a good feeling.

So, he's bruising his knuckles on punching bags at five in the morning, feeling sick and sweaty and so jittery he'd probably pull a knife on the next person to startle him.

The sand in them is rattling, looking like they're about to give, when Damian slips in, clacking his boots on the hard cement of the training floor as forewarning. "Don't waste our resources," Damian tells him.

"I wasn't gonna let them break."

"Like you'd know," Damian says. It's dark, especially in the 'Cave. Jay can barely see his face in the shadows. The blue in his eyes has turned black like the lowest levels of the ocean in this lighting. It makes him look cold. He's never looked more like his father.

"What's baby bird doing up past his bedtime?" Jay asks.

"Can't sleep." Damian takes his place at the adjacent punching bag, gives it an experimental high kick. He looks satisfied by the loud crack it makes, eyes, in calculation, following the pendulumlike rhythm of the bag as it swings itself back into stillness. Once it's stopped completely, he hits it again, harder. "Why are _you_ down here, Todd?"

"Can't sleep," Jay returns. Damian doesn't ask him to elaborate. "You don't have to do this, you know. You're ten. You should be living a real life, not this shitty excuse for one."

"Domesticity isn't living," Damian says. He hits the punching bag in rapid succession, with increasing brutality until it looks completely wrecked. Jay notices he hasn't let the seams burst, though. "This is living."

"Seriously?" Jay asks. "Kid, listen-"

"No, _you_ listen, Todd. Stop shouldering your guilt onto me. Know that I respect you as a capable fighter, and that I have grudgingly bestowed my trust upon you, but ultimately, I understand what I'm getting into - perhaps more than you do - and I am not your responsibility. I am not a child who needs to be babysat. _-Tt.-_ "

Jay stares at Damian like he's never seen him before and then nods. They train in silence until they're both too tired to keep their eyes from drooping closed and split their separate ways. Jay watches Damian's retreating form fade into the dark of hallway until he sees only shadows and then shakes his head.

 _Kids these days._

* * *

"I should tranq him," Roy says.

Jay pulls the blankets off and peaks up the bunk. "Tranq who?"

"Dami?" Dick offers. "He is a little overactive."

Roy snorts. "I meant the Joker."

Jay chokes in disbelief, but Dick gives Roy a considering look. "Do you think he'd have defences against that?"

"You're actually taking that seriously?" Jay asks.

"Well, it's not every day one of the Arrows actually stays in Gotham for more than a couple hours." Roy shrugs. "I mean, it's kind of a shithole, no offence."

"Yeah, none taken," Jay says, dry. "I bet you ten bucks Joker's got more contingency plans than Bruce. There's no way this'll work."

"Hey, we don't know 'till we try." Roy grins. "I'll hide somewhere good, shoot him, and if it doesn't work, I'll be outta there before he can blink. Bro, I've got this."

"Okay, but me and Dick and the Bats better be there as backup. If you pull this shit by yourself, Roy, I'll kill you before Joker does."

Roy's grin takes on a wild edge. "Lookin' forward to it."

"You're really doing this, aren't you?" Dick's wide-eyed and maybe a little impressed.

"I've been waiting years for this sorta challenge," Roy says with disturbing nonchalance. "It's gonna be great."

"Yeah, you keep thinking that, Roy," Jay says, under his breath. Not that it makes much difference, and Roy winks at him jauntily.

It hasn't even been a week, and already he's breaking the "Stupidest Thing We've Ever Attempted" record. It doesn't feel like much of a win.

* * *

Monday night, Joker's making a deal. Waiting's over, now comes the hard part.

Jay watches from his high perch as Roy makes his way across the rooftop below. He can't hear feet crunch on cracked cement, which reassures him that Roy hasn't lost his touch in stealth, but this is only the beginning. This isn't a walk in the park, or one of their usual missions. This is the fucking Joker. Jay knows firsthand what it feels like to fight the Clown blind, to go in too fast and too stupid.

B made sure they were prepared, but even the League has trouble dealing with that piece of filth.

"I'm at Position One," Roy whispers into the comm. It's cold enough that Jay can see his breath in the night air.

He kneels at the small skylight, quietly sliding it half-open to reveal where Joker and his lackeys are making the deal below, and draws his bow. His fingers don't twitch on the arrow, but Jay can hear his fast breathing over the channel. A drip of sweat rolls down his neck.

"Arsenal, you're free to take the shot," Bruce says.

Roy tenses, hesitates for a painful, drawn-out second, but his eyes are determined. He fires, soundless and with Oliver's precision. Jay has no doubt it's hit its mark, but the thump and panic he can hear from Roy's comm confirm it entirely.

"Firing the next shot," Roy says. Sleeping gas, the extra precaution. Bruce's equivalent of a double tap. Roy allows the bow to make a satisfying _twang,_ now that there's no-one to hear but them. They wait, open-eyed, until smoke rises from the open window, too slow to threaten their stiff and uncoordinated attempts at fastening their gas masks. Bruce excluded; his movements are only ever perfect.

Roy waves a gloved hand. "In we go!"

He slides through the window, into the smoke and out of sight. "Jesus," Dick says.

"Yeah," Jay agrees. He only spends a scant millisecond staring at the unoccupied roof before jumping down after Roy, Dick and the rest of the Bats gliding along by his side.

The room is thick and blinding and impenetrable. The smoke moves rhythmically, allowing Jay a few glimpses. Roy's hair, bodies on the floor, the emptying smoke grenade rolling like a harmless bouncy ball, 25 cents and sold in gumball machines. He and Dick had amassed a collection, before. He wonders if Dick still has them.

"He's down," Roy says. "Motherfuck, he's down!" An excited whoop.

"Not for long," Bruce replies. "Jason, get the restraints. Damian, cover for Jason. Tim, ready the backup cord. Dick, if something goes wrong, set the escrima sticks as high as is safe."

"Shit, those things sting! He can't be that strong, man," Roy says. "He's so, I dunno, wiry?"

"Agility," Bruce says, quick. "If he gets up, he won't go back down."

Jay doesn't look at the body as he ties. Steel rope on pale skin, that's all. He doesn't want to see the smile he knows is still there.

"What about the goons?" Dick asks. Jay doesn't look up to check on them. He's afraid if he looks away, makes one slip, the Clown will slither out of the rope like it's sewing thread.

"Leave them," Bruce says. Dick looks dubious. "Quinn will find them."

"She's not that kinda doctor," Dick quips lightly, but he's taut as Roy's bowstring.

"They'll recover." Bruce turns away, hauls the body over his shoulder, and grapples up and out.

"Why worry about them?" Damian sneers. Tim gives him an angry glare.

"What the fuck did we just do?" Jay asks. He thinks he might be sick. They're all pale. Roy shrugs.

"Not fuck it up?" he offers.

"Yet," Dick says, smiling weakly.

* * *

Jay stands in front of the Batcave's cell. See-through glass, but he's been assured over and over by Dick that nothing can get through it. That's a lie. The only reason Joker's still here is because they've piqued his interest enough to play along.

"He's scheduled to transfer to Arkham's solitary wing in three hours," Bruce says.

"Bruce and I will be making the trip," Tim adds.

"He still out?" Jay asks.

"I gave him a second dose." Tim smiles, a little self-satisfied. "He won't be waking up any time soon."

Sooner than Tim thinks. But Jay's not going anywhere. Doesn't have anywhere to go to.

* * *

When Joker wakes up, Jay's playing Tetris on his phone, cross-legged on Bruce's chair. He gives the Clown a few moments to adjust, himself some time to beat the level before raising his head.

Joker's already plastered at the front of the glass. "Boy Blunder?" he asks. His eyes aren't angry, but excited. "Well, I have to hand it to you, I certainly didn't expect-"

"Someone other than Bruce?" Jay grits out.

"I'm impressed," Joker says pleasantly. "Who'd have thought? Batman's guard dog isn't all bark, after all."

"You're going away for a long, long time, you son of a bitch," Jay spits. It paints the glass, and Joker watches it drip with pleased amusement.

"You're the slobbery type, I see," he notes. "You must be _so_ happy Bats finally let you off the leash."

Jay slams a fist against the glass. It makes no dent, like Dick had promised. Jay suddenly wishes he'd been wrong. He wants to take a crowbar to it, to _him._

"Good boy!" Joker's grin stretches. "Now, play dead." He giggles. "Oh, wait."

His hands feel wet, thicker than anxious clamminess. He looks down and finds his palms red with blood, little crescent moons where his nails have ripped into his flesh.

"No declawing?" Joker asks. "Has Batman's little stray been on the streets too long?" Jay growls, fury turning it almost to a roar. "I can keep going with these, you know. You just make it _so_ easy. You always have."

"Fuck you," Jay snaps.

"Why, we haven't even had our first date." Joker pauses. "We're not so different, me and you."

"The only thing we've ever shared is this mantle." Jay taps the helmet.

"Don't kid yourself, kiddo. We all know you're not as sane as you pretend. It's such a waste of energy, you know. All you have to do is let yourself go." He shrugs, shakes his head. "You could do so much more. Think of all that unused potential, Jason! It'd be a shame to let it all go to waste."

"Go to hell."

"You ever get so mad you can't think?" Joker smiles. "It feels so good, doesn't it?"

Jay turns away, walks slowly towards the door. "I don't have to deal with this shit."

Joker just laughs and laughs and laughs.

Jay can still hear it, echoing around him, no matter how far he retreats into the 'Cave.

* * *

Sure enough, Tim and Bruce ship him out to Arkham hours later. Jay's been hyperaware of every noise and movement, twitchy and expecting a hit. Metal against his jaw, blood in his mouth. That fucking laugh. He checks the now-empty cell two times over before he can manage to take a deep breath again.

Dick sits next to him, where he's dangling his feet over the railing, looking down into the bottomless cavern. Jay side-eyes him. He's whistling, hands resting behind his neck, looking drained but happy. Once the song is finished, he says, "It's over."

It's not over. It's never gonna be over, but Dick's looking at him with pride in his eyes and Jay doesn't want to ruin the moment. He thinks can make this sacrifice for his team, and for Dick. So he says, "Yeah. What're we gonna do now?"

"Keep on keepin' on," Dick says. "Roy says Harley's pissed."

"Naturally."

"Apparently she's teamed up with Ivy. I think it could be fun. Provided we avoid her pollen, of course."

"Better stock up on the Claritin," Jay warns.

"You up for this?"

Jay snorts. "Yeah, I am. I've come back from worse, Dickie."

"But this time it's personal."

Jay pats him on the back and gets up, stretching. "All the more reason to get back on the field," he says. "Gotham's gonna be chaos. Wouldn't want B to get his hands full."

Dick lies back, looks up at the stalactites, considering.

"You still with us, Dick?" Jay asks.

Dick gives him his warmest smile. "Nowhere else I'd rather be."

* * *

 _FIN._


End file.
